


Lone Dreamers

by orphan_account



Category: Divinity: Original Sin 2
Genre: Doggy Style, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Heats, Impregnation, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Sex, One Shot, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Indulgent, Spoilers, aaand it's porn, first fic in this fandom?, mild headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 14:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12278850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You dream of him.  You want to tell him.  Youhaveto.





	Lone Dreamers

**Author's Note:**

> While fic writing in general is self-indulgent to varying degrees, but this might be the most self-indulgent I've ever written. Completely stupid pointless fluff with mild headcanon. 
> 
> But I figure I'd put it out there for everyone out there who, like me, rolled female lizard and ended up unexpectedly crushing on Ifan, the tortured, grizzled cinnamon bun that he is. Kinda love that he doesn't give a shit - he is gonna dig you if he thinks you're cool and you let him.
> 
> The setting is post-game so story spoilers ahead

Ifan ben-Mezd, the Silver Claw, knits his brow together as he scans the horizon, arms folded and leaning against a leg raised on the bulwark. No doubt keeping an eye out for krakens, you figure, as the vast open sea before him gently rocks the _Lady Vengeance_. Like the waves stretching out before him, flecks of seawater in his beard glisten in the deep orange dusk, the waning sun casting long shadows across the ship’s deck. Yet as you approach the Lone Wolf, some force keeps your lips sealed. You settle on having them curl up at the sight of him instead.

_Humans._ You usually found them to be rather brutish, small-minded creatures, and far too rough around the edges. _Ifan_ , on the other hand, while rough and bruised by a hard life, stood as humble yet undeniable proof of the tenacity and fierceness of the human spirit. Perhaps you never noticed it before, or never appreciated these qualities. Now, you cannot stop drinking in the figure before you, this chosen avatar of a god himself.

The air between you crackles with Source, and with the even stranger magnetism between you. Your cheeks flush, but it’s too late to look away when he soon notices your attention. His stern vigilance breaks as his shoulders relax, and his arms swing loose by his sides as he saunters over. The sharp light of dusk retreats as the sun dips below the horizon.

“Shall we retire?” he asks.

You take his hand in yours.

You descend with him into the hold of the _Lady Vengeance_ , the both of you knowing the way by heart through her sanguine, living wood. You stop at the carved door of your sanctuary, where only you and he - together - may pass through. Crevices in the carvings alight as the door connects with your Source, and with unified voices, your warm alto joins his sonorous baritone as you sing your command. The carvings disappear into light, then fade, revealing the private bedroom beyond.

What was once a secluded port in the storm as you sailed through the Hall of Echoes towards Arx, has now become a routine amenity you look forward to for all your days.

Light shines again, and doorway rematerializes, its seams melding into a solid wall to seal you in, and to keep the world out. The process does not fully complete before Ifan has his arms around you, pressing his rugged lips to yours. You may never stop feeling humbled by just how much affection for you this man can hold in his one body.

Desire, too. Unassuming, yet forward; ever-present, yet reserved. He doesn’t insist but he welcomes your scrutiny as he peels off of you to strip himself of his mesh of leather and furs. You watch him, mesmerized as he flexes and extends, hard lines of muscle emerging from their confines. He catches your roving eye and winks at you. If you did not know him any better, you’d think him a bit of an exhibitionist.

You waste no time following suit, however, and catch up to his state of undress. Your tunic slides off of your shoulders, joining your crumpled heap of clothes beside his. You steps toward you, sliding and fitting himself against you, his forehead tucked into your gracile neck, and his meaty arms wrapped around your angular waist. Though heavily scarred, the lone wolf’s sun-kissed complexion is a stark contrast between your own mottled and scaly body. That the two souls contained could fit together so neatly fills you with wonder and awe, and not for the first time. And so long as your good fortune endures, it will not be for the last.

“Come here, beautiful,” he beckons, pulling you toward the bed in the center of the room. In the center of everything.

You join him, slipping back onto the sheets, and his arm snakes around you. Your lithe, serpentine body presses back against his broad chest, craggy and dusted with fine hair. You will never grow tired of basking in his seemingly boundless warmth.

You inhale deeply. You’ve faced demons, undead, and lieutenants of the God King. You are not sure what there could be left to fear, especially here, in the arms of the man you adore. What safer place could there be in all of Rivellon, if not here?

Your lips crack open. It’s as though a demonic curse upon your throat lifts when you speak the words: “I’m having dreams.”

He shifts, his arm curling tighter around you. “So am I. Most of them are about you anymore,” he says. “I’m grateful for that.”

Your chest constricts, and you smile weakly as you forge on. “As I suspected, for mine are of you as well. That’s the trouble.”

“Trouble?” he says in mock offense. He frowns however when he says, “They are not bad dreams, are they?”

A blush blooms under your scales. “No. They are...I’m not sure. Happy, but strange.”

“As dreams go?”

“It’s different for lizardkin.”

He nods. “So it is. So much that your kind has a separate noble house dedicated to them. We humans don’t put nearly as much stock in our dreaming.”

You rotate in his hold so that you may look at him. “Your dreams are not significant to you?”

He scoffs. “Half the time I don’t even remember them. Bits and pieces if that, or lingering emotions when I wake up.”

He doesn’t meet your eye as he says this, and so you frown as you sense his hesitation. “Emotions?” you venture, sensitive to his shift in mood.

He sighs, then says, “Actually, I used to dread them. Dread going to sleep, because of the dreaming. Since I left the magisters, my restless mind could only conjure the Deathfog, the withering forest, and the choking screams. I only held onto my sanity by telling myself the nightmares meant nothing, that they had no hold on me except whatever power I gave them.”

“But that was then. Then...” His brow creases, and he gives you a soft, almost pained look as he raises a hand to your cheek. “Then I got whisked up like some stray dog, a Source collar clapped around my neck, then hauled away on that godsforsaken boat, where I met the loveliest creature to ever grace Rivellon. Though I did not realize it at the time.”

You remember the panic and confusion of that night fondly, a strange feeling given how nearly the abyss had claimed you. The warm feeling in you makes you jocular, and so you smile and say, “Because I am a lizard?”

You meant your statement in jest, but he leans back, blinking, as though you slapped him. Then, he kisses you, sharp and firm. When his warm lips leave yours, he says, “Because I didn’t know shit about anything except for my contract, and that this noble lady took the pity I didn’t deserve when she came to my rescue in the hold. And that the next time I saw her again, she was standing at my side, ready to have my back though she knew so little about me.”

“I had no doubt about my decision.”

“And that’s a memory I will always cherish.”

You shift, feeling an aching heat rise in your belly. It is not hunger, nor thirst, nor a demand for Source-- but just as urgent. You entwine your slender fingers through his stubbier ones. His touch, his closeness is the only thing that seems to slake the feeling.

Your discomfort worsens when he asks, in his gruff and gravelly tone, “What does it mean, then, for us to dream about one another?”

The heat in your belly seems to rush through up through to your temples, like an erupting volcano. You turn away, hoping the shade of your scales does not turn you as red as the Red Prince himself. “It is...prognostication,” you say.

“A prediction of the future?”

“Yes, it is a glimpse of destiny. It is often metaphorical, but sometimes not. This is why lizardkin rely on Dreamers to help separate the kernels of truth from the chaff.”

“Ah, right. I think I recall that Red fellow making rather a production over finding one.” His brow knits. “He seemed to make a production over everything, though.”

You snort with amusement.

“Should we look into it?”

“No,” you say firmly, shaking your head. “Unlike the Red Prince, for me it is not so urgent.”

“I might disagree, if the sour look of you is any clue. As if you’ve got my future hidden somewhere under the floorboards, and now this old wolf has its scent. You can’t drop something like that and then leave me to my agonizing curiosity.”

You feel the blush flood your cheeks again, and you frown. You hesitate. “It’s just...it’s ridiculous.”

“Well, now you _have_ to tell me…”

He strokes your cheek, ever patient with you as you summon the courage. His soft gaze whittles down your final defenses.

You admit, softly, “I dreamed of a brood. My brood. And you were there with me.”

“I was there with you,” he repeats. You hope you do not have to elaborate when suddenly, his quick mind seizes upon the truth, and his eyes widen. “You mean-”

You interrupt him, embarrassed to hear his deduction aloud: “As I said, it’s ridiculous.”

“You dreamt me the father?”

You twist to get a better look at him, finding him grinning ear-to-scruffy-ear. There’s no stopping him once he has a scent on his nose, you realize. Nonetheless, your heart falls when you tell him, “Our species’ blood cannot mingle. So, therefore, while our dreams may be happy, yet they are strange. I wonder what it might fortell.”

“Hm,” he replies, pensive. His lip curls into a smile. “Yet you do think them happy.”

* * *

 

You wake with a start when a scalding heat in your belly strikes you. The one that has been plaguing you for a fortnight since you confessed the secret of your dreams to him.

There can be no question about the cause now, and a sudden, added contraction in your muscles insists that you do something about it. You rouse to find the long spine of your back pressed into the broad expanse of his chest once more, and you revel in the soft caress of his slumbering breath against your collar. Your blood rushes, and your pulse flutters.

A sharp hiss escapes you as another contraction strikes. The sound wakes him this time, and he shifts against you, his leathery lips coming to press against your scaly cheek. The cramp eases as he runs a rough, calloused hand just above your flaming belly, and his half-limp cock slides against your tail.

It is useless. You dream of him. You _need_ him, to the Void with what it all means.

You rotate toward him in his arms. Slipping a hand down, you open your slender legs and run your fingertips over your sex, stroking yourself in a shameless invitation.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” falls from his lips as he accepts, running a broad hand over the plated scales of your chest, kissing your shoulder as he does so. His fingers feather over you, slow, surveying the rugged topography of your chest and belly. He’s determined to commit it all to memory, he once told you. An agonizing eternity passes as you allow him to rove, then descend. He replaces your svelte fingers with his thick ones, and while you want to give him a moment to rouse himself to full mast, you also want to skip the pleasantries as the fire in your core rages.

Lewd, slick noises shock you as fluid coats his probing hand before he even has a chance to work in another finger.

“Gods, love, you are _marvelous_ this morning,” he observes, withdrawing his digits, chuckling as you groan. At his sharp intake of breath, you roll forward onto your knees and whisk your tail aside, presenting yourself as you rub your swollen slit. You sigh when he replaces the press of his hand with the head of his cock. You turn to observe him licking clean his fingers, remarking, “You even taste better somehow. Sweeter. As if I could want you even more desperately.”

“Take me,” you plead, sighing into the pillow as he lines himself up.

He grips your hips. “All too happy to oblige you…”

He enters you with one sharp thrust. The bed creaks. You shut your eyes in ecstasy as he fills you to your deepest, hungriest recesses. You worry, however, when you hear a choked off groan tear from his lips, but he doesn’t move.

After a moment, you finally feel him pull back, then thrust back in with a tender ferocity you’ve come to crave. He says, “Don’t worry. Didn’t lose it.” He pants as he livens the pace to a steady slap of flesh. “Never, uh, live something like _that_ down. But darling, _darling_ ,” he groans, leaning forward. His whiskers tickle your shoulder blade. “You’re not just sweeter, you’re _molten._ ”

You can only reply with gasps and moans, the heat in you coiling, like a dragon with a belly full of fire. You do feel different this time, as though every part of you it ready to burst in a dazzle of stars and fireworks.

“You’re gushing,” he remarks, and it’s only then you register in blissful passing that you’re trailing fluid down your thighs, soaking him and yourself with passion. He slows his pace, a bashful chuckle escaping him when he says, “You’re not making this easy, dear.”

You grow restless at that, urging him to fuck you deeply with a sharp meeting of your hips back against him. He answers the message with a grunt, and you feel the slide of his hand under you. He finds your sex, presses firm fingers to the nub of flesh there. You shudder and sigh with approval. Then, jolting you with an unexpected thrill, he snaps his hips forward.

“Good?” he asks, his breathing shaky as he drives into you again, then sets into a galloping pace. You thrash, but he holds you tighter, the steady pressure of his fingers making you delirious with ecstasy.  The rolling tension wraps you, closes around you.  Your tail whips and coils until you are overcome.  It spasms, as you do, and like a crumbling glacier your tether to this plane breaks away, and the weight of your climax crashes down.

“Gods!” he grinds out, low and guttural.  He lets you go to grasp at your hip and tail, his searing heat mingles with yours as his hips jerk forward in wild release. With feral grunts he squeezes your hips as he presses himself inside until you feel the last twitch of his cock. You tense with another convulsion, and the muscles of your sex pulsate over his cock in a way you have never felt before, as though wringing him out.

When you regain a sense of your surroundings, you are unsure of how many seconds - or minutes, or hours - you remain locked together, overloaded in bliss. You hum in satisfaction, however, when he finally slips out and collapses on the pillow next to you. You lower yourself, sensation returning to your limbs as you run a hand over the sides of your belly. You furrow your brow when your fingers come across a strange resistance pushing back.

You look over to him. Your voice croaks as you say, “Ifan.”

“Hm?” he responds, eyes closed and a contented smile on his lip.

“That was rather... _different_ , wasn’t it?” you say sheepishly.

With a satisfied sigh, he says, “Love, whatever that was, it’s a different I can get used to.”

“It was a surprise to me, too,” you say.

At that, his eyes pop open and he looks at you. He knits his brow. “What’s wrong?”

“It's my body, it's…”

A tinge of panic crosses his features. “What, darling?”

“Producing. I’ve just noticed.”

He quirks a brow.

You take his hand. “Feel them. Here.”

You guide his hand to your waist, where his fingers brush alongside two glowing patches on either side of your belly. He twitches, clearly not expecting the intense heat emanating from them, but in the next moment he presses his fingertips against them, and palpating the solid marbles beneath the soft flesh.

“Oh, gods, are you-?” he rumbles, wide-eyed, but you cut him off with a vigorous shake of your head.

“No, they are not fertilized,” you say, noting how he deflates. “However…” you start.

“However?” Ifan repeats, and you are surprised by the eagerness you detect in his voice.

You take a moment, then the words rush out of you: “They only begin to form when our body chooses its mate.”

He is silent for a moment, his brow furrowing as he absorbs your words. “Your body chooses its mate,” he repeats, a hybrid of both statement and question.

“Lizardkin generally have no code nor limitations about sex with other races, but our bodies choose who seeds the next generation, whether it’s a production of viable sperm or - in my case - eggs.”

Breathlessly, he says, “But I thought you said our species cannot mingle.”

“I did. It is unheard of that our bodies choose someone outside of lizardkin. Perhaps this must be some fluke of biology.”

He grimaces. He then says, “So you say. But just how sure are you?”

“There has never been record of clutches being born to lizard-human parents.”

“There’s been no record, but that just means nobody observed it and bothered to write it down.”

“Don’t you think someone would have at least talked about it?”

“You don’t see many human-lizard couples out there. Probably fewer with a lizard whose body has chosen them, as you say, so the rarity of it makes sense. But the impossibility? Not in this world. Not after what we’ve seen together. And with Source, well...life finds a way.”

You ponder this, unable to deny the merit of his words. “You do not seem troubled.”

“I am only troubled because you are. We can be more...careful, if that is what you wish.”

“Careful?”

“Aye. Does the possibility of breeding with a human distress you? Or is it having children at all? Whatever the case, I-”

“No!” you blurt. You reel at the intensity in your own voice.

A wolfish grin spreads across his lips. “‘No’, what?”

You admit, “The idea of breeding with you is not distressful. I would not have considered my dreams to be happy ones otherwise.”

He swallows, then dips his chin, and you revel in the rare sight of him being at a loss for words. Finally, he settles on: “Right. Your happy dreams.”

You tear your gaze away. “I thought that perhaps _you_ would find the prospect distressing, truth be told.”

He grimaces, furious as though you struck him on the cheek. “Why? Why would I find the idea of a family with you offensive? My lady, the one I’ve shared my trust, my strength, and my bed with? The only person who ever took my breath away with her poise, her ferocity, and wisdom in sharing divine power with the world? Making love, and having a family with you would be the only dream I’d ever give a _damn_ about.”

You feel your core surge again at his declaration, in demand of his dedication, his love, his seed. The oxygen in the room seem scarce as your aching desire squeezes in your chest. “Then, my love, it is a dream we both share.”

His expression falls into a strained reverence, and you think him on the verge of tears. “Perhaps they were more literal than you first believed.”

“Perhaps we should find out,” you say. A whispered prayer.

With a groan, he rolls atop you, kissing you deeply as he sinks into you, enveloping him in your fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated!


End file.
